Fathomed Parallelism
by MelaRossa
Summary: Light and the nameless stranger found themselves reaching a mutual understanding over L's grave a year after his death; after all, the two had both known the pains of battling the detective. One-shot. Not an OC.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Death Note.**

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It wasn't something that was easily possible of achieving, but Light would have much preferred to have been completely alone once arriving at his destination. However, his hours hadn't been able to work in his favour, and it was inevitable that other people would be around, doing that which was intended for the graveyard and visiting the dead. _Their_ dead. Whether it be friends, family, lovers, or even acquaintances (including people who just like to visit graveyards for the sake of it), those left alive were visiting the final resting places of those gone.

Well, that wasn't a big deal. There were only a few people there, despite it being a large burial ground. Only one or two so much as glanced at him as he passed by in his usual stride, head held high and with an obvious sense of destination, clearly knowing where he was going and the fastest way to get there and away, to feel that he had done what he was obligated to do and be over with it. He felt uncomfortably warm under their eyes, even if it was only for a second. Those strangers and their damn thoughts of pity. Their mental questions of who he was visiting, and why he was here.

Light was done pretending to grieve; it was a tiring act, despite the benefits of others feeling sorry for him having been most useful. Yes, the weeks spent faking a pain for the loss of his friend had been worth it. Yes, the lies of spending nights awake longing to hear the man's voice had not been for nothing (those lies, incidentally, were occasionally true; to hear him admit defeat would have been heavenly). But, overall, he was glad for that time to be over. Today was the one day of the year he was forced to impersonate a loyal friend, along with all the other masks he wore each day. If he could just be alone, he could honestly confess to having visited the dead detective and be as smug as he wanted about his win.

_Victory._

It was a year since L's death on November the fifth.

What a wonderful year it had been.

Being so painfully watched had made freedom taste, ironically, so incredibly _sweet_ that the very idea of being away from watchful eyes for so long was mouth watering. The idea of being truly free had, a year ago, sent Light into hysterical laughter in the very place he now stood, and in all honesty he felt no different. The sensation was still as perfect as it was then, and he found himself clenching his knuckles in an attempt to hold back from repeating the episode again.

That, and the fact he was being forced to wear the extra mask at that moment.

It was the evening, far from the night, but the days grew shorter with the season, and the nights drew in early, leaving the outside world in a dark blue cloaking. The last visit had been at sunset, veiling the cemetery in a red glow, a far more beautiful setting. But that had been earlier in the day, when the task force had been able to lose a day of work for something as trivial as a funeral.

_They_ could see each other perfectly well in the dark.

The stranger's eyes were lights themselves, and Light found himself feeling like a deer caught in the headlights of a car for more than one reason. Above all, looking at his face gave the sensation of impending danger, and it was a feeling he neither was accustomed to nor would willingly acknowledge.

He made no indication of moving away from the grave which Light sought. Rather, he had most likely been there for some time, judging by the interest he had taken in the stone memorial. The brunet refused to allow it to affect his decision in visiting L, and made his way closer, staring into those glowing eyes with every step.

Neither of the two would back down.

He was easily distinguishable; describing him to the police wouldn't be difficult if his intention of coming to the graveyard had been to cause trouble. His hair, jet black, was long enough to be slightly feminine, reaching almost to his shoulders at the longest parts. It stuck out in some places in a sloppy fashion, as if he had dumped water on his head and let it dry like that. His skin was pale, porcelain even, and there was no mistaking that he wasn't Japanese; definitely European. It was difficult to tell his body shape, hidden under a thick, black winter coat complete with fur hood lining (yet the weather had been surprisingly warm at night for several weeks). His irises were dark in colour and shiny like glass, though certainly not a cause of tears. In fact, he showed no signs of sadness at all. It was an expression Light knew far too well.

That look of loathing.

Pure, genuine _loathing_.

It had been intended for the man occupying the grave, but the stranger had no problem letting the visiting nineteen-year-old suffer it to, albeit softened. But it was there, and it quickly turned into a mutual feeling, a rivalry arising that shouldn't have had to occur.

_This is my territory._

_You have no right to be here._

_You don't deserve to be visiting him._

The foreigner didn't move an inch when he was approached, still standing directly in front of the grave and leaving no convenient room for any others who wished to see the nameless headstone. The best Light could do was awkwardly shimmy next to him, having to stand far too close for his liking just to get a look.

But he would never have backed down.

He could have come back an hour or two later. Hell, he even could have gone the next day. Nobody would question him if he gave some excuse about the traffic being bad.

But it wasn't the date that mattered any more.

It wasn't even the dead man he came to visit. Screw L, he had rotted to the bone a long time ago. This was about the living, dammit!

It had been a while since there had been a feeling of such competition of the lives of both men.

How they had missed it.

In that moment, even if they were unaware of it, they were the same.

United by death.

Any other person would have said something. An obvious statement, possibly about the weather. Or maybe an inquiry to why it was the nameless detective they were visiting on the anniversary of his death. A confirmation that they had the right one. Even an "Excuse me" would have been enough to lose the game.

There was no conversation.

No brief greeting, followed by an introduction of an alias and a stream of lies.

Nothing but the silence that is expected of a land of the dead.

A desire to read what was said about the deceased caused the stranger to bend forwards, just a little, giving him a familiar hunch.

He had his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, presumably from the "cold". Light hadn't thought much of it before then. Before that moment, that single action of leaning over, only to once again go over the words on the rock more clearly, memorising the curve of every letter, the space between every word.

The sight made the brunet feel _sick_. He wouldn't look at him for more than a glance. He couldn't. He couldn't stare, or it would be admitting he didn't want him standing there, and that would make him the loser of their contest. But he _needed_ to. The urge welled inside him, desperate to turn, grab the other man's arms and throw them out of his pockets for daring to be so damn similar to that _bastard_ son of a bitch.

A glance was all it took to ruin it.

Well, several glances that lasted a few minutes each. And involved his head being mostly angled to face the direction the impersonator was standing in. Man in question, his back still arched, carefully raised his head up, looked up at the pair of chocolate brown eyes that insisted on watching and judging his every breath. It was a familiar feeling; but that didn't make it a welcome one by any means. The hostility, however, almost _numbed_ with the second staring session. This time was not out of annoyance of being disturbed. It was out of curiosity. Fascination. Both recalled something of L in each other, even if it was only a small feeling of him. Had he been reflected in their eyes? Or had a small part of him rubbed off onto them after so much time spent in his presence? Furthermore, how much did they even know about the detective? How were they connected to him?

The sudden urge to ask how the other knew about his grave nagged at them both equally, but asking would be far too risky. If one asked, they would _both_ have to reply, something to be avoided at all costs. In their own way, it was another understanding between them. One more way in which they were united.

And they knew it.

The two silent strangers, standing by each other in the darkness, both shared the experience of battling the world's greatest detective. Befriending him. Betraying him. Becoming him, or at least gaining his title. The bitterness they still held after so much time was shared, and they could read it all over their faces. And now they continued to lie about it every day. For one who hid in the darkness, he lied to himself, trying to deceive the only living person who knew they had ever met. For the other, he stood in plain sight, risking his life by making every word deceptive, faking every emotion in order to survive, living his life under the same watchful stares that he had under endured L Lawliet each day.

The stranger felt sorry for him. Perhaps, one day, he would be free of such burdens. It was such a relief to feel the weight from one's shoulders lifted. It almost overcame the humiliation of failure. He longed to tell him that, to _comfort_ him. It would come for him sooner or later, even if his ending numbers were missing, and his expiration date was hidden, the end would surely come for Light Yagami.

Just as it would for Kira.

Enough was enough. There were no words he could console him with. There was no promise of things miraculously getting easier. That was the curse they would never break. All he could do was wish for Light that, when his time came, death would be an assuagement.

Just as it would be for himself.

The pair of onyx eyes broke away, dragging his focus back to the reason of his coming. Initially, he had thought it troubling to complete his task without the pleasure of being alone; yet standing with possibly the last person in the world who would understand his motives for the murder of three innocent people, had he known the reason, gave the stranger a feeling of _rectitude_. Perhaps not Kira, who was blinded by his own sense of justice; but the man who was beside him who had known L, and taken the time to visit him, even if- no, it _definitely_ was just to gloat over his success. He would, even if the judges and jury hadn't, even if Naomi Misora could never have, and on some degree, if L had refused to allow himself to understand. He wouldn't run in fear if he announced the things he had done in order to prove himself more than just a backup.

_Backup._

The stranger wanted to laugh at the idea, now. Look at that, the copy had outlived the original. And who did he have to thank for destroying L but the self-proclaimed new God.

He should have done it himself.

It caught Light by surprise, though he should have been waiting for it. He had doubted the stranger would go through with it.

He had spat on the grave.

Literally _spat_ on the dirt that covered the bones of the detective.

Thought he certainly didn't encourage any unnecessary deposit of bodily fluids, the brunet had to admit it was a perfect spit.

His goal achieved, he had no reason to linger. Spinning on the heels of his scuffed trainers, he made his way through grave after grave, seemingly not caring enough to use the intended paths, never once looking back. With the darkening sky against his coat, it didn't take long for him to become invisible, vanishing into the night and back to whatever hole he had crawled from.

Just one more name that would have gone in the mass-murderers little black notebook.

Thank God for aliases.

Light caught himself watching the direction he had departed in, as if he would suddenly turn around and start another staring contest. He didn't, of course. The nineteen-year-old questioned what he would do if he had. Not that it mattered. No more time needed to be wasted.

There wasn't a single flower brought for the occasion. He would have rejected them if he was alive. Light didn't need to bring anything; his presence _was_ the gift. The stranger had probably thought similarly.

There were no prizes for losing.

All the loser would receive was the weight of his failure until his death. Kira had been kind enough to allow those two things to happen in union.

It was unfortunate for the nameless stranger that L had not been so altruistic.

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**Thank you very much for reading. Reviews mean the world to me, should you feel like writing anything. Sincerest apologies for any dissatisfaction this story caused.**


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